


Wildness

by Wheely_Jessi



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Growth, Healing, Reunions, Romance, World Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2019-12-26 18:29:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18287858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wheely_Jessi/pseuds/Wheely_Jessi
Summary: A canon-compliant version of Series 7 for our favourite wonder women, starting off in Poplar with their reunion, and following them as they travel the world before ending up in Scotland. Inspired by the songs of the British band Snow Patrol, and an entirely separate universe to my other fics.Initial very brief angst but otherwise fluff (with feelings and realism).





	1. How to be Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Given the angsty place _Hopes and Fears_ is at right now, I’ve decided to publish the first chapter of this as some lighter relief. I started it months ago, and was going to wait until _Hopes and Fears_ finished to put it up, but I’ve had some pretty big and exhausting medical appointments myself this week, so needed the respite of revisiting this fluffier story. And trust me, it really is fluff, despite the title of the first chapter and song, which is here: https://youtu.be/pnjTKNi0veg
> 
> Posted with thanks to Catching Up and MystWords for telling me to be brave and stop prevaricating about publishing.
> 
> Let me know what you think of this alternative avenue; your feedback will be much appreciated.

Delia Busby dislikes crowds. Almost to the point of phobia, although not quite. If she were asked when this aversion bordering on fear developed, she couldn’t give an exact answer, because she isn’t entirely sure. Perhaps it’s a product of her height. Being shorter can be stifling at the best of times, but it’s infinitely more irritating when surrounded by a mass of people in which it’s hardly possible to move, let alone see anything beyond backs and bums. Yes, perhaps it’s her height. That’d mean the feeling’s always been around, and she’s learnt to cope with it through experience as she’s grown. Perhaps, though, it had a different starting point: one much more recent, rare and raw than the commonplace childhood frustration which provoked her to climb trees. Perhaps it came after her accident, and is a symptom of the frequent sensory overload her brain injury and amnesia brought on. That’d also mean it’s always been around, in a way, since she has no concrete sense of life without it. Or perhaps there’s a third option, she realises with a tight smile as she weaves her way through the well-wishers thronging in front of Nonnatus following Barbara and Tom’s (frankly beautiful) wedding. Maybe, in fact, she’s over-emphasising these medical hypotheses. Maybe she’s just jealous. And sad. Justifiably. After all, she’s waited so long for a day like this for herself. If not quite all her life (because, honestly, as a child she really was too busy climbing trees) then at least for the last four years. Since she and Patsy got serious. And that seems so unfair – because it means, across all the couples in their working-friendship group, they’ve been “together” the longest. Even _engaged_ the longest, if the promises exchanged over the ring a part of her is no longer convinced she actually ever had still count. And yet, not only is that commitment impossible to confirm publicly, it’s impossible to _acknowledge_. Whereas, for Babs and Tom, things went from a blade of grass in a Germolene tin to a fully-fledged ceremony officiated by her _father_ in a matter of months. Weeks, actually, given the motivation of his Mission overseas. So the Herewards are soon to be setting off on their honeymoon… And Patsy isn’t even here. Truth be told, the darker corners of Delia’s psyche have begun to wonder if she ever was.

If only one person remembers something, did it actually happen?

That rhetorical question brings her resentful ramblings to an abrupt halt, and she draws a deep breath, seeking calm in the sensation of the chilly December air hitting her lungs. She concedes to a little jealousy. Then she stumbles on a slightly crooked cobble, and decides her accident is playing its part too, muddling her mind and jostling her balance as insidiously and unexpectedly as it ever did in its immediate aftermath. Recovery is as rocky a road as the one underfoot. Having returned to London to build a life with Patsy, her partner’s absence since the spring has made her heart and brain ache, doubting the existence of not just their connection but _themselves_. Herself. Admittedly, her framing of them as ghosts had been gauche, especially in the context of her _cariad’s_ childhood. Yet the metaphor somehow means more now than it did when she first spoke of it because, having corrected her footing, she looks up and thinks she sees one. Red hair framing blue eyes set in a pale face above a green jacket over a blue shirt and ill-fitting jeans.

Pats.

Suddenly, she couldn’t care less about cobbles. Or crowds.

~

Patsy Mount hates crowds. Always has. Probably always will. No, that’s not strictly true. On either count. It began at a very particular point in her childhood. A point that’s been perversely present since April, when she at last returned to the continent on which the aversion first appeared, and throughout her journey back to Britain. Especially on the ship. Because it was a ship, and the sea, that started it. Before then, she’s certain she barely noticed, already being tall for her age and quite content to mill around whenever they’d gone out with either Mama or an _amah_. But after then, well, solitude was sacred. Or it had been until she arrived in Hong Kong and got the gift of sharing space with her Papa. By the autumn, being alone again felt awful, because there was no-one else to register her reality. Everyone else was too busy with the literal, rather than metaphorical, rebuilding of their lives. So her grief made her glad of the press of people in the ports on both departure and docking; and her lonely travel across London is a struggle. She only knows she has walked because her feet ache from the cobbles. They used to be the bane of her existence, on a bike, but now they are its proof. How easily perspectives can shift, yet at the same time, how hard that shift can seem. How strange that what once gave her grief now keeps her grounded; keeps her here. She’s grateful, though, because (without the crowds and the cobbles) she might not have found her way back to her beloved brunette. Her _real_ reminder of reality. Months without contact have meant she has no more certainty in her consciousness to combat dissociation on her own, and the old wounds of abandonment are fresh, leaving her doubting Delia’s very existence. Regardless, her “Welsh Wonder” might well have moved on, and she hasn’t the faintest idea what _else_ has happened at Nonnatus. At least, thanks to the cobbles (and the blisters she’s sure they’re causing), she has concrete confirmation she isn’t a ghost. The splitting pain in her feet tells her her sense of self isn’t splitting apart. And also that, soon, she’ll turn the last corner and pass under the final bridge. Whether Delia will be waiting is not so simple to work out. But, when she does turn the corner, she wants to sag with relief. At the end of the (still rather long) road, there’s a crowd. Not for her – of course not – but for something. So she is not alone any more. Or so it seems to her eyes and feet, although her brain still battles disbelief. Until, that is, a figure emerges from the possibly ghostly group. A vision of brown hair framing beautiful blue eyes accentuated by an equally beautiful blue dress.

Deels.

Now she _curses_ the cobbles, because she cannot take another step. Just wave, and watch as her little love walks towards her and waits, knowing the words she manages to form through the sudden tide of gratitude and grief are utterly inadequate. Meaningless, even.

~

Only a tangible thing will test the truth of their tangibility.

And she is determined to do better. Here. Now. Crowd or no crowd. 

So she pulls Delia in, leans down, and lets their lips touch.

At last.

~

Later, the required reintroductions and (superficial) explanations over, they are alone together in their room. They still silently stumble over that pronoun. But it is. Theirs, that is. A shared sanctuary offered by their friend Phyllis on the pretence that she’d prefer greater privacy. Not that they’re using it for anything remotely scandalous. At least not yet. Unless simple fact of their relationship is considered such a subject. No. They’re currently occupied with nothing more intimate than talking. Although perhaps, given their history of halted and halting conversations, they should say nothing _less_ intimate.

Touch, after all, has always been simpler than speech; in private, anyway.

Particularly for Patsy. Which, it turns out, is the right way around tonight, because Delia has a great deal to get off her chest.

‘I know I ought to be more lenient, love,’ she is saying as she stands several feet away from the bed on which her sweetheart has slumped in pyjamas, her soft lilt circling around the subject her mind has mulled over for months, ‘because you were left with no news of or from _me_ , too, not so long ago. But I suppose I hoped that’d mean you’d understand what it was like, and not make the same mistake. I get that you were gearing up for grief, really I do, and I don’t want an apology. I’d just’ve thought you’d appreciate someone a little less attached to the situation who wouldn’t mind when you needed to debrief late at night. And the time difference made it easy enough, surely? But you didn’t call, or even make the effort to write after your first letter. And when I read the announcement in The Times I was at a loss because a fortnight had already passed without a single word from you. And don’t even get me started on Cuba, _cariad_ …’ She trails off, at last registering that the redhead at whom her rant is directed has also stood up – and is closing the gap between them, without quite touching her.

‘I did, Deels, I did make the effort,’ Patsy promises, ‘both to write and to call. But nothing would go through, because of Wanda.’ The brunette blanches, her facial expression flashing from confused, to crushed, to cross; and the older woman curses the slip of her tongue in leaving out a crucial modifier. ‘The typhoon,’ she clarifies. ‘It hit at the start of September and left the infrastructure in ruins. Overseas communication is tricky at the best of times, but after that, it was impossible. And any letter I wrote just prior to leaving again would’ve arrived here long after _me_. But I wrote, I swear. Almost compulsively, exactly like you said you did once you _could_ write again after your accident. They were sent back, as I sort of knew they’d be, but I stowed them in my suitcase, so I can read them to you. If you’d like.’

Delia blinks, realisation dawning. ‘ _My_ letters all got sent back,’ she breathes, ‘I thought I’d got the address wrong. At least I did with the first one. After a while I thought you’d left me. Or even forgotten me.’ She laughs hollowly, oddly relieved by this completely inevitable and external explanation.

Her taller partner nods in sympathy. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she offers, despite the paltry sound of the phrase. ‘I should’ve called from near the station, really, as soon as my train got in. But by that stage it felt a bit pointless because I was so close. And now I’m here, I’m glad I didn’t, so I didn’t steal Babs’ spotlight.’

The shorter woman mirrors her nod. ‘Yes. Beautiful Babs. All in all, this should be a perfect day, shouldn’t it?’

Her girlfriend grins at the rueful tone of her question. ‘It’s not, though, is it?’ she returns softly.

‘No,’ is Delia’s honest answer, ‘And _I’m_ sorry. It’s just rather a lot to process. You weren’t here, and now you are, at the exact moment when I’d almost got my head around the fact you probably wouldn’t be back. Literally. My brain’s been a bit bewildered without you, Pats. I meant it when I said I didn’t know. I have no proper concept of what’s real any more. Not really. Not beyond the basics.’

‘I know,’ is Patsy’s simple response, ‘and it probably won’t help in the slightest, but I’ve been the same without you.’

Then she steps back a little, and moves over to her suitcase, from which Delia thinks she is fetching the fabled letters that made this reunion morph into more of a reconciliation. What she brings out, though, is much littler than a letter – and for several seconds the brunette feels as if she has forgotten to breathe. The redhead notices, but merely kneels at her feet, head bowed as she holds out a ring resting in the centre of a chain.

‘Pats…’

The nervous older nurse raises a hand to ask for silence. ‘I didn’t want to do this tonight,’ she starts, stammering, ‘because you deserve a much more romantic setting, and some time to settle back into being together. But I thought it might help things seem more real. Especially with all the pageantry you’ve had to endure this afternoon and evening. It was Mama’s, and Papa wanted me to have it to give to you. If there’s anything to salvage from my pathetic speech outside, _this_ is what I meant. Whatever happens next in my life, my love, I want you by my side, and to be by yours – and I want you to be able to _remember_ that each time you feel this ring against your skin.’ Patsy pauses, aware she’s rambling, and giggles before going on. ‘I’d also like to take you on a honeymoon of sorts, perhaps to Paris like we planned, but first things first. I know this won’t fix everything, and it isn’t intended to, but hopefully it’s a beginning.’

Only when she gets to this point does she dare drop her hand and look up. She is greeted by the rare sight of her younger partner gazing down on her in a mixture of disbelief and delight, a smile spreading between dimpled cheeks. ‘It certainly is that, _cariad_ ,’ Delia agrees readily, ‘a beginning again.’ She is so caught up in their mutual emotion and excitement that she initially neglects to give an answer. Meanwhile, the redhead’s cheeks grow redder and redder as she waits with her namesake virtue for a proper reply. Eventually, the brunette realises, and blushes a similarly bright colour. ‘Yes, love,’ she says quickly, offering a gentle grasp on which her _fiancée_ may pull herself up to standing.

Having turned Delia around to secure the ring, Patsy feels bold enough to press a quick, chaste kiss to the nape of her neck. The Welshwoman gasps, then giggles, and counsels for carefulness. ‘ _Yn araf, annwyl_ ,’ she whispers.

Her worldly (and world-weary) English lover hums in understanding. ‘I know,’ she says. ‘Slowly. Aside from anything else, I think we could both do with a good night’s sleep before we even contemplate being that brazen. And I don’t know about you, but I’m freezing _wearing_ my pyjamas. I guess I’m no longer used to this colder climate.’

Delia giggles again. ‘My frosty reception earlier probably didn’t help, either,’ she concurs sheepishly, ‘but I’d say you’re a very wise woman. And spooning sounds _heavenly_ , Pats. You could carry me over the threshold, though.’

‘You mean to bed?’ Patsy’s brows have rocketed, since the destination is a mere two or three strides from where they stand.

‘Mhmm,’ her little love murmurs bashfully, ‘my feet ache something chronic after wearing heels all day. Yours must too, actually, from walking home,’ she adds, the designation deliberate but seemingly offhand.

‘They do, rather,’ the taller of the two allows; thinking of the pressure she put on her soles to placate the panic in her soul.

‘Well, wife-to-be,’ Delia says, winking, ‘bed and foot rubs for us both. The definition of marital bliss, in my book.’


	2. Wow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Don't be scared of anything at all / Everything we have is all we need'
> 
> The next day (13th December 1962). 
> 
> Patsy and Delia share some early morning snuggles, which progress a little further than snuggles, and then have some more chats about the future.
> 
> Bits of this are the reason for the ‘M’ rating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music and lyrics for song two, 'Wow', are here: https://youtu.be/OF4Dcyk9SA4 (And what can I say, the song made me do it!)
> 
> Posted with huge thanks for your kindness in reading and commenting so far on this new story, and also to MystWords for feedback on the new chapter to help my anxiety about the more mature bits. I hope it feels both suitably in character and sufficiently fluffy!
> 
> I'm publishing it today in memory of my dear friend Lauren Scott, as it's her thirteenth anniversary, and Snow Patrol were a very significant band for us as teenagers. We also wrote stories together, so I like to think she'd be pleased I'm still writing now.

Early the next day, Delia stirs at the movement of the mattress behind her. Shifting with a speed she didn’t know she still possessed at this sort of hour, she flips onto her right side and grasps her _cariad_ gently around the waist. ‘Patience Elizabeth Mount,’ she murmurs against the plaid of her taller partner’s pyjamas, ‘where exactly d’you think you’re going this long before sunrise?’

Patsy giggles at the contact and the question, wiggling slightly in an (admittedly half-hearted) attempt to escape. ‘Just to the loo, love,’ she says, twisting a bit awkwardly and stretching backwards to stroke the shorter woman’s hair. ‘Don’t worry, Welshie, I won’t leave the warmth of your embrace – or this duvet – for a minute longer than is necessary to relieve my bladder.’

She receives a light slap on her shoulder for this cheek. ‘You did well to put me first in that sentence, Pats,’ the brunette mutters darkly, and the redhead can almost hear the pout in her favourite voice.

‘Always, Deels,’ she asserts, before at last extricating herself and leaping out of bed to jog down the passage to the bathroom. ‘I’ll be back in a jiffy,’ she calls out, quietly but kindly, as she shuts their door. On her return, she finds she has been granted the perfect-sized gap to slot into – if they face each other. She thinks nothing of this change at first, and simply gets settled again, but then registers the darker shade of the blue eyes boring into her own. ‘What?’ she asks, feeling her swallow reflex kick in, and cursing her body’s betrayal.

Slowly, Patience, she thinks sternly.

The movement is nearly negligible, but Delia notices, and hums. ‘Oh nothing,’ she offers airily, ‘I just missed you.’

Patsy grins, deciding to continue this flirtation for as long as it feels comfortable. ‘I was the same,’ she says, wondering if the younger woman will recognise her phrasing from the previous evening, and inspired by that thought to go further. ‘I’m back now, though, which means we should begin again. Good morning, darling.’

It is Delia’s turn to break the hush of the rest of the house with a giggle; albeit a reserved one. ‘Good morning, _fiancée_ , you mean,’ she returns, fiddling absentmindedly with the chain nestling at her throat.

Her older sweetheart is suitably amused – and apologetic. ‘Why, yes, indeed I do. Terribly sorry. Good morning, _fiancée._ ’

They smile at each other without speaking for a few moments, content to bask in their closeness behind the security of a shut door, and the delight that the first faint cracks of dawn do not in fact herald a departure. Then, taunted by the opportunity this twilight affords, Delia decides to be daring; leaning forward just enough to drop a quick kiss on her lover’s lips. ‘I did miss you, though,’ she whispers when she pulls away. ‘I missed your warmth.’

‘I bet you did, Deels,’ the taller nurse says with a nod. ‘It looks like last night’s snow flurry has settled.’

The smaller woman smirks at her sweetheart’s sincerity; then snuggles up slightly more. ‘That wasn’t what I meant, Pats,’ she purrs.

The redhead blushes right to her roots at this boldness from her beloved brunette, but lets her lips curl into the lopsided grin she knows she loves. ‘So much for “ _Yn araf, annwyl_ ”, eh?’ she whispers back, watching as the petite Welshwoman winces playfully at her deliberately poor pronunciation.

‘Oh, love,’ Delia replies with a husky chuckle, ‘we may _certainly_ go slowly. By my calculations when you were in the loo, we have about an hour before anyone even _thinks_ of emerging for either devotions or duties. Besides, you can hardly expect me to go back to sleep and leave you lying awake.’

Now it’s Patsy’s turn to throw a swat towards a pyjama-clad shoulder as gentle admonishment for such sass. ‘You know me too well.’

‘I do.’

Delia’s simple answer sounds so much like the validation of the vows they exchanged late last night that Patsy needs no further persuasion. The next several minutes, therefore, are spent on the awkward navigation of body- and bedclothes to achieve the necessary compromise between caution and nudity. Both women wiggle their pyjama trousers down enough to allow for access, but also for easy readjustment should the need for speed unexpectedly arise. The same goes for their tops, which they push up instead of unbuttoning. Not quite the comfiest of circumstances or the complete skin on skin contact they crave, but this morning’s teasing flirtations have morphed into an actual moment of mutual want, and neither of them is keen to miss this chance.

They don’t expect perfection. They’ve the rest of their shared life to strive for that. Nor do they even expect the expected end of such activities, really. They’re out of practice, after all, and even the practice they’d had before was pretty… well, basic.

So they settle for unhurried hands carefully cupping (still half-concealed) breasts, breath hitching as they revel in the range of reactions to gentle (or not so gentle) pinches of nipples growing more and more pert with each provocation. Then, these responses getting a little too loud for their liking, they relish the excuse to keep each other quiet with kisses. Or rather _cusan_. As their lips lock, they dare to let their hands drift lower, fingers feathering across soft stomachs before braving a quick brush over the curls covering an area mutually aching for attention. This motion makes them moan into each other’s mouths, and break away for a brief, guilty, giggle. Then they kiss again, in order to _caress_ again, sweeping soft yet significant strokes as they search for that most sensitive spot which is at once their shared part and utterly unique to each of them. When they find it, they sigh out on what seems like a single breath, and deepen their kisses through desperation and desire at the same time as increasing the pressure of their touches. They feel too tentative to venture further this morning – in this room, in this convent – but such a long period of enforced separation has made their bodies extra eager and they sense themselves beginning to build, together, just from the joy of _being together_ and the insistent nudging of (not so) nimble fingers against bundles of nerves slick with need.

The brunette’s climax comes first, so she breaks the kiss, burying her face in her pillow to muffle the moans she is otherwise helpless to stop escaping. This sight is enough to send the redhead over the edge shortly afterwards, and now their arms take up another parallel position, looping lovingly around the curves of each other’s waists to offer calm and comfort as they come down.

As they’d been before this bravery, they are quiet for a few minutes – then the smaller woman smiles slyly. ‘Still living up to your name, then, _Patience_ ,’ she says in a voice all the silkier for its softness.

‘ _Delia_!’

Patsy pouts, and then is silent, so for a while the Welshwoman wonders if she’s stewing in genuine hurt. ‘ _Sori, cariad_ ,’ she starts, stuttering, ‘I’m deflecting and that’s not fair on you. It’s just, well, you’re so bloody gorgeous and sometimes I can’t comprehend why you’d want to be with me…’

Her English lover is instantly attentive; the pout, which had been playful, is rapidly replaced by concern. ‘Oh, Deels, darling. Is this about your scars?’

The younger nurse grants her a nervous nod. ‘I know they’ve not changed since you left, but I thought you might’ve adjusted your perspective in the months we were apart.’

The older woman answers this firstly by trailing the tips of her fingers lightly down the length of her little love’s right leg; and secondly through sincere speech. ‘Only in that I now think they’re _more_ beautiful than I did before. Listen, love, I have scars too – as you well know. They might not be as easily visible as yours, but they’re there. Seared into my brain, if not my body. And do they make you love me any less?’

‘Of course not! They make me love you _more_.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Except when they wake us both at godforsaken hours,’ Delia adds drily.

Patsy chokes back a chuckle to avoid waking everyone else. ‘Well, quite,’ she agrees, before growing pensive. ‘I understand why you’re wary about them, though. When I first arrived in Hong Kong, Papa wouldn’t let me see him unless he was fully clothed, but he then got so hot when we were together that my changing him was eventually inevitable. And I learnt through that how brutally the men had been treated after segregation, and how “lucky” we were in comparison, especially us kids. The camp officials were never physically violent with children. It’s a small mercy, but a mercy nonetheless, and the reminder of it made me truly proud to call him my Papa. Just like your scars make me proud to call _you_ my _future wife_. Even if, for now, it’s only in private.’

Her smaller fiancée blinks away the tears blurring her blue eyes and burrows even closer into their post-coital _cwtch_. ‘ _Caru ti, cariad,_ ’ she breathes, her voice catching on a sort of grateful grief of the kind with which Patsy is all too intimately acquainted. 

‘ _Caru ti hefyd_ ,’ she replies, completing the familiar phrase.

They hum happily in harmony and settle into companionable silence once again, content to contemplate the murmurs of the still early morning as business begins both inside Nonnatus and on the brisk air outside its walls. Then, though, Delia decides she has more to discuss.

‘You’re pretty close to perfection, you know that, Pats?’

The referenced redhead summons the most unladylike snort she can muster. ‘I realise you still have a few memory issues, Deels, but surely you can’t’ve forgotten your – absolutely justified – outrage last night?’

The brunette’s head bobs as her laughter bubbles over. ‘No, I haven’t; but that was more about my own insecurities. You had totally acceptable, no, understandable, explanations, and once I heard them I wasn’t angry with _you_ any more. Just my brain, for making me doubt everything.’ She pauses, pondering how best to make this point so her equally insecure partner will believe her words, and then seizes on Patsy’s own strategy from earlier. ‘At the Cinnamon two Christmases ago, when I told you about writing three letters as soon as I could, and we came to the conclusion Mam mustn’t’ve posted them, did you still feel angry with me, _annwyl_?’

‘Of course not! It wasn’t your fault.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And I suppose the havoc caused by Wanda wasn’t mine, either,’ Patsy allows with a sigh, ‘even if I did initially phrase it as if it were another woman.’

Delia giggles again at this. ‘Yes, I was a bit thrown by that, love. But I guess it’s another good example of you accepting your mistakes and working to rectify their effects. And _that’s_ what makes you close to perfection.’

The older woman groans, shaking her head. ‘I fear I’m a long way off yet. Not least because we’re both feeling funny about being back here together.’

The younger nurse nods, acknowledging the accuracy of this assessment. ‘It’s strange, isn’t it,’ she agrees. ‘I think it’s because there’s this air of us starting again, like there was when I first moved in and everyone went off to South Africa fairly soon afterwards. But it was cut short so quickly with you heading to Hong Kong that we can’t quite bring ourselves to trust it. I know _I_ can’t.’

‘If I’m honest, I think it goes back further than that, Nurse Busby,’ Patsy suggests tentatively, as she strokes her beloved brunette’s cheek to try and soften the blow this might bring. ‘I think it feels like before your accident, so a part of each of us is scared to get excited about being together in the neighbourhood of Poplar in case something awful happens again.’

Delia stills her lover’s hand by taking it in her own and giving it a gentle squeeze. ‘You’re right, Nurse Mount, and you’re so wise.’

‘It’s only because I found being back in Southeast Asia so difficult.’

‘I know, but that’s precisely why you’re wise. You’re using your personal, individual experience to help us process the one we share. And Pats?’

‘Yes, Deels?’

‘If Poplar’s the problem, I think we should leave.’

‘ _What!_?’ Patsy feels as though her eyebrows have orchestrated an exodus from her face. ‘But you’re on the verge of qualifying – and what about Paris?’

Delia thinks this might be the funniest face she’s ever seen her reserved partner pull. ‘I don’t mean _immediately_ ,’ she soothes with a chuckle, ‘but my exams are at the end of this month, and you aren’t technically employed here any longer. It’s been suggested I’ll slip straight into a job, like you’d just pick up where you left off, but nothing’s guaranteed. And frankly, _annwyl_ , if time alone with my thoughts most nights has taught me anything, it’s that we need to prioritise our own wellbeing before we even broach that of our patients. It isn’t as though we’d be taking anything away from Nonnatus, not really, because you haven’t been here for over half a year and _I’ve_ not been a consideration when it comes to the rota…’ She trails off as she takes in the transformation of her _cariad’s_ expression from confusion to excitement. ‘Well?’

‘Are you saying you want us to elope?’

Delia grins at this question, her dimples in full force. ‘I guess so. Essentially. Somewhere we’d be useful, mind, because neither of us can abide idleness.’

Patsy grows pensive again. ‘Indeed. I do have an idea – it’s been growing since you mentioned South Africa. It might be silly, but, well, d’you remember how jealous we were when everyone got back and they were regaling us with stories?’

It’s her fiancée’s turn to be enthused. ‘Are _you_ saying we should help Dr Myra at the Hope Clinic?’

‘I am.’ The redhead nods, grinning too. ‘Partly selfishly, I admit, because my body’s already missing warmer weather and this would be the perfect time to travel there. I wasn’t joking when I mentioned the snow settling overnight.’

The brunette bursts into quiet giggles yet again, before taking a breath. ‘You’re a fool. But you’re _my_ fool. And that isn’t selfish, love, it’s self- _preserving_. I think this is a _wonderful_ plan, Pats.’

‘You think it’d work, Deels?’

‘I think if we feel like it’d work then it will. As long as we’re together, I believe we can surmount almost any obstacles. Shall we sound it out with Sister Julienne after breakfast?’

‘Yes, let’s,’ the taller of the two lovers agrees as she tucks her smaller sweetheart’s head beneath her chin. ‘But, right now, I’d appreciate it if we could have some extra snuggles – because I really am rather chilly.’

Delia just giggles. ‘Put your pyjamas back on properly, Mount. Your autonomic response to our earlier activities will have worn off by now.’

‘Behave, Busby, you started it!’ Patsy retorts, blushing. ‘Although it was very lovely. The end, especially,’ she adds.

The giggles become a grin as they work together to sort out their state of undress. ‘Mmhmm, it was a bit of a “wow” moment, wasn’t it?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on the conversation about scars:
> 
> This features in order to separate this fic from _Hopes and Fears_ and to keep this one in line with canon. In _Hopes and Fears_ , Patsy has physical scars as a proxy for my own experience. In the camps she is most likely to have been in based on canon references, though, the children were relatively 'well-treated', especially in comparison to others in the geographical area, for instance in what is now Java. Whilst all other details in _Hopes and Fears_ are as historically accurate to the Sumatran camps as I obsessively tried to make them, I wanted to rectify this one deviation from truth in this fic.
> 
> I hope the explanation is acceptable. Thanks so much for continuing to read <3


	3. Gleaming Auction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buried deep in the telegram / I’m sure I never got / Was any clue of the whereabouts / Of all the things I’d lost’
> 
> A little later that morning. Patsy and Delia join most of their found family for breakfast, and afterwards chat to Sister Julienne about their vague plans for adventure. Lots of feelings and lots of fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for song three, 'Gleaming Auction', is here: https://youtu.be/x9Ebk2OP7uc
> 
> Lyrics are here, because none of the videos online had them along with the music:
> 
> 'I'll get tired of the heart attacks  
> Every time it rings  
> I'll put myself on the waiting list  
> And get it all cleared up  
> You're the one with the attitude  
> Don't try and make me out  
> To be the root of the evil in  
> The whole rotten affair
> 
> Lie back and suffer now  
> We've both earned our reward
> 
> Buried deep in the telegram  
> I'm sure I never got  
> Was any clue of the whereabouts  
> Of all the things I'd lost  
> Just because you were right before  
> Doesn't mean you're right  
> To make up now would just vindicate  
> Every doubt I had
> 
> It's not as simple as  
> How much you think you care  
> You would never know  
> When to take the hint  
> Broken glass aside  
> My feelings stay the same  
> Covered head to toe  
> In blood and fear and spite'
> 
> Published with so much gratitude for everyone's kindness about this different tack, and your efforts in reading and commenting so far. You're all very lovely and appreciated. A special shout-out to MystWords for being a brilliant and patient beta <3

‘Now, Pats; you’ve promised me you’ll eat a proper breakfast before we talk to Sister Julienne, yes?’ Delia asks assertively at the top of the stairs when they eventually emerge from their room for the day.

‘Yes, Nurse Busby,’ comes the reply, constructed from the clipped if quiet consonants of Received Pronunciation, to the Welshwoman’s whispered question. It feels decidedly rhetorical to her English fiancée, but the effects of their flirtations this morning still linger, and she wants to push things with just a touch of playfulness.

‘Watch that tone, Nurse Mount,’ the shorter woman shoots back, smirking as she heads down to the ground floor.

‘Watch your _step_ , Deels,’ her taller partner counters, matching verbal protectiveness with verbal protectiveness in the manner to which they were both once so accustomed.

Delia finds this evidence of old habits endearing rather than irksome, though, so simply slows her pace to let her lover catch up and take advantage of the contact required by necessity. Not even a nun would bat an eyelid, she thinks wryly; not on the stairs of this convent where medical matters are so mundane. The slight pressure of a supportive hand on a shoulder can be shrugged off in seconds, after all, and she’s overjoyed her reticent redhead feels sufficiently safe even to _offer_.

Patsy has far less platonic plans in mind, however, and stoops slightly whilst they walk the last of the way to breathe a single, significant sentence in the brunette’s ear. ‘You don’t have to hide things from me, love,’ she says sincerely as they reach the bottom step.

Her fiancée is glad of firmer ground for more than just secure footing as she stops herself from doubling over in giggles by grasping the end of the banister. ‘Pot meet kettle, Patience,’ she murmurs, and they both bite the insides of their cheeks to check any further chuckles.

‘ _Touché_.’

Satisfied this exchange signals that they have slipped back into the well-worn (and well- _loved_ ) rhythms of their relationship, they trot through to the dining room together, not daring to be late for the special breakfast the Sisters have laid on – partly a celebration of new chapters, but mostly an incentive for everyone to be up early after the excitement of the wedding yesterday. Nothing fancy; merely familial, but somehow all the lovelier for that reason. They settle in opposite seats, by mutual (hurriedly motioned) consent, not quite trusting themselves to be adjacent and unaffectionate when their nearness is still so new. As soon as they sit, though, their trains of thought are diverted by gentle greetings from Sister Julienne. ‘Good morning, Nurse Busby, Nurse Mount,’ she starts, before changing her register completely. ‘I trust you rested well after your travels, Patsy?’

The young nurse is touched by her elder’s enquiry. ‘I did, thank you, Sister. And I was glad to catch Barbara and Tom before they set off on theirs.’

The nun smiles. ‘I’m sure. You’ll see them again shortly, however, as they plan to pop over this morning and say a proper, more private goodbye prior to leaving London. But for now, breakfast. Sister Winifred, would you say grace for us, please?’

Winifred mirrors her superior’s expression, but makes it more of a grin, and then recites the blessing. Everyone answers appropriately, after which it’s allowable to start reaching across the table for preferred preserves to spread on toast.

‘Porridge, Patsy?’ Val offers, and the redhead quirks her lips gratefully at the brunette beside her, although intending to decline as demurely as she can.

‘No thanks,’ she says, softly. ‘I’ve not quite got my land legs back yet,’ she adds by way of what she hopes is a suitably innocuous explanation, ‘so I think I’ll stick to toast today.’

‘Fairy snuff,’ her new colleague (of sorts) responds with a flicker of compassionate comprehension, and Patsy muses on how much she’s missed the quirks of Cockney rhyming slang.

Delia, meanwhile, is shooting daggers across the short distance between them – and she really can’t cope with _that_ right now. Consequently, when the telephone rings, she is only too eager to morph into Nurse Mount and makes to leap up. ‘I’ll get it.’

‘You’ll do no such thing, lass,’ Phyllis puts in, lips pursed and Leeds lilt particularly pronounced. ‘You said yourself you’ve yet to regain your land legs. Sit still and start on that toast.’

Val now gives her seat neighbour a guilty grin, as she gets up instead. ‘I’ll go.’

‘Thank you, Nurse Dyer. Nurse Crane is correct, Nurse Mount,’ Sister Julienne confirms as she continues, although she softens her statement in the circumstances by using all of their titles. ‘You might well be on Telephone Duty later today, because it’s the least taxing of our tasks, but even that will only be for short stints whilst you settle into being back.’

Patsy is both mortified and mollified. ‘Understood, Sister,’ she says, summoning another small smile of her own and studiously avoiding her fiancée’s furrowed brows whilst buttering her toast to take a deliberately sizable bite. She chews and swallows, delicately of course, almost as though the breakfast food were comparable in shape and consistency to a Communion wafer. These motions having granted her the apt opportunity to reflect, she goes on, much more graciously. ‘Thank you for permitting me time to readjust; it’s appreciated.’

Only now does she look across at her lover, who nods approvingly, any trace of anger having dissipated.

Sister Julienne notices the fleeting glance between the two nurses and offers up an additional, silent prayer of gratitude that they may support each other once again. ‘You are welcome – and you are welcome, too, to make use of the chapel at any point.’

‘Thank you.’ The ginger nurse’s grin is genuine at last, if only because she’s wondering whether her employer has transcended to telepathy, given the connection of chapels to her thoughts about Communion. To be safe, she shifts the subject. ‘Is Trixie out already?’ she asks, having observed her best friend’s absence.

Here Phyllis interjects a second time. ‘Yes, Nurse Franklin was called to the Davies’ at about five. Anwen is a first-timer, so I shouldn’t think she’ll be back too quickly. She left a message for you, however. I’m to inform you that “the very second she gets in” she’s going to “read you the Riot Act for neglecting to let us know you were coming home”.’

Patsy pales at this, so Delia decides to engage in immediate deflection on her beloved’s behalf. ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘some extra Celtic influence for the neighbourhood. Wonderful.’ Everyone chuckles, and she’s met with a combined chorus of agreement and suggestions that the local Welsh community will clamour for her services once she qualifies – but she has other business to address today. ‘As for the note, if Trix has complaints about communication, she ought to direct them to Typhoon Wanda, not Patsy.’

The chuckles turn to confusion, until Sister Julienne registers exactly what has been said, and realises an apology is required. ‘Yes, of course, I meant to start the meal with that. The Order has connections in Kowloon, and a telegram arrived just before our devotions this morning. The situation sounds dreadful. I’m sorry we couldn’t be of more support to you. I, certainly, should have paid greater attention to the news, but Cuba had a tendency to dominate the headlines.’

The redhead nods in resignation. ‘Western stories always take precedence,’ she states blandly, despite knowing the sentence is simplistic at best, and spurious at worst, since the Soviet Union doesn’t quite adhere to such broad boundaries and was at the centre of the Cuban Crisis. But it is the most she can manage at the moment – much like the few bites of toast she has thus far coaxed down. So she switches the focus back to the micro level, and next makes a very personal request. ‘I’m sorry, Sister, may I please be excused?’

She receives a wimpled nod in return, at which she stands up as slowly as decorum demands yet as swiftly as anxiety allows, and practically sprints through to the safety, silence and solitude of the chapel.

Sister Julienne watches her Welsh friend watching her leave, and hears words of comfort in her own voice almost before she’s aware of speaking. ‘Follow her, Delia,’ she instructs gently, ‘and I’ll join you both once the rest of us have finished eating. I’d venture to suggest she ought not to be entirely alone this morning.’

Delia nods, too; completing the trinity. Then she collects the relevant crockery from the table to wash up prior to pelting after her partner. She knows she needs to be mindful for a few minutes, and safeguard herself, if she wishes to provide sufficient support. So she centres her concentration on the sound of the water filling the sink, followed by the feeling of the soap suds slipping over her hands and the joy that she’s retained relatively quick reflexes as a glass slips _out_ of her grasp. She catches it before it has a chance to clunk against the surface and smiles. With such a speedy reaction, she is more than prepared for whatever awaits when she rejoins her _annwyl_.

Reaching the door of the chapel, she spots her fragile fiancée sitting stock still on the same side they shared whilst sharing chips, and wonders briefly whether the redhead remembers that evening. Then she berates herself, unconsciously shaking her brunette bun – she remembers _everything_. That’s why she had to leave and hide in here. Even the _thought_ of Trixie’s disapproval was enough to set her on edge. Nodding now, for her own reassurance, Delia shuffles further into the room and sidles along to sit beside her beloved.

Patsy says nothing and, for a fair few moments, seemingly fails to process her presence. Then, however, she sighs heavily and lets her larger hand brush lightly over Delia’s smaller one where it rests on her knee. ‘Do you suppose we’ll go to Hell,’ she whispers, ‘sitting and holding hands in the house of God?’

The Welshwoman stops herself from welling up at the words, and the effort makes her accent thicker with emotion. ‘Well it’s less of a crime than in the street, _cariad_ , as you once so wisely said.’

‘I guess I did, in a manner of speaking, like you with your cutting remarks about cake to that cad,’ her English lover returns drily, before falling silent again. ‘Funny to think how, last time we hid in here like this, Tom and Trixie were engaged, and arguing. Now he’s married Babs. And we’re still hiding. _Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose_ , eh? It’s exhausting, isn’t it?’ she adds in a rush after yet another pensive pause. ‘I’m still so sorry I couldn’t send you word. You must’ve felt utterly lost.’

‘Stop. It wasn’t your fault.’ These two sentences are accompanied by a firm yet soft squeeze of the hand still hovering above Delia’s own. ‘And if anyone’s feeling “lost”, love,’ she continues in an even quieter voice, ‘it’s far more likely you.’

‘Deels. Don’t.’ Patsy’s tone is pleading, but her hand stays put. ‘Not yet. Not here. I’m too angry to articulate my grief appropriately in such a religious setting,’ she says with a slight snort, hiding her vulnerability behind humour and a vast vocabulary.

The brunette giggles, shaking her tightly-wound bun in full view of her fiancée this time. ‘Sister Julienne would probably think this was _precisely_ the place for that sort of emotion, Pats.’

The redhead has to bite her lip to prevent a roar of laughter escaping. ‘You’re right, she probably would. That’s a point, actually – should we go find her?’

‘She’s coming here to find _us_.’

‘Oh!’ Surprise breaks through Patsy’s otherwise firmly-fixed façade, and flickers briefly across her face, before becoming a grateful grin. Nevertheless, she gently loosens the grip of their hands, hoping Delia will understand.

Delia does, and demonstrates by matching her favourite person’s smile.

As if on cue, they hear the soft clip of their employer’s shoes over the polished floor as she approaches the entrance to what they now, subconsciously, think of as their sanctuary. ‘Patsy, Delia?’ she calls softly, ‘Are you still in here?’

‘Yes, Sister,’ they chorus back, both bemused by her use of their first names.

Sister Julienne enters, and elects to sit opposite them, across the aisle, on the other side of what she guesses, in another, larger, setting would be termed the choir stalls – although that feels silly and grandiose, somehow, in reference to their more modest arrangements. Then she tuts inwardly, embarrassed at letting her mind wander in a way much more like “Louise” than “Julienne”, and watches the two wary young women watch _her_ as she walks. ‘Is this all right?’ she asks, affably, when she is eventually settled.

They nod in unconscious unison, although the redhead’s bob is rather more reticent than her brunette roommate’s.

The Sister smiles; deciding this disparity is as good a starting point as any other. ‘Are _you_ all right?’ she modifies, signalling through a pronoun and the point of her head that her second question is meant for Patsy.

‘Not really, no.’

‘I thought not.’

The ease and compassion of this admission and answer comes as a shock, despite a part of Patsy knowing it shouldn’t, so she hears herself reverting to her triple tactics of apology, gratitude and rambling. ‘Thank you for understanding. I’m sorry. So sorry. It’s just, well, I’m all at sea, I suppose. Metaphorically rather than literally, despite what I said at breakfast. I thought familiar surroundings and routines would help, but they’re somehow making everything feel more foreign, and I don’t have the foggiest notion of what to do about it. So, we – Delia and I – have been discussing my dilemma and I know I’ve only just got back but we wondered what you’d say if we each asked for an another leave of absence?’

‘After my exams, of course,’ her petite partner puts in, for clarity, once she reaches the conclusion of her query.

Sister Julienne smiles again, and wider. ‘I’d say it makes a lot of sense. Sometimes we have to counter significant change with significant change. Sister Monica Joan, no doubt, would have an apt aphorism to support my statement, but alas I do not possess her facility for either poetry or proverbs, and you’ll both have seen she’s still abed. So I’d simply suggest we frame it as a sort of sabbatical, regardless of how you intend to spend your time.’

The two young nurses feel their fear almost visibly evaporating as she speaks. ‘Oh,’ Patsy interjects when she stops, rushing to reassure her they’ve thought this through, ‘We’d absolutely plan to work – we even wanted to ask if you thought the Hope Clinic might have us.’

The elder nun is beaming by this point. ‘What a _splendid_ suggestion. You’d each be a much appreciated addition to the staff. I’ve often wished we could do more to support them and this seems a _wonderful_ solution on all sides. After you have a holiday, of course. I’ll make contact with Dr Myra immediately, although we do have some leeway for arrangements. For today, though, there’ll be no more talk of work. For either of you. I’ll ’phone St Cuthbert’s and make Nurse Busby’s excuses.’

With that decree, and what they swear is a wink but might just be the reflection of gleaming sunlight on snow catching her eyes through the window, Sister Julienne stands up – leaving as gently yet purposefully as she arrived, and them just as bemused to be back to titles.

‘I wonder what Babs and Trix will think of that when they arrive, _annwyl_ ,’ the Welshwoman whispers with a giggle.

The Englishwoman shakes her head, awestruck. ‘It’s almost enough to make one religious,’ she responds wryly, accentuating her consonants for maximum effect, ‘but I have far too great a taste for living in sin, especially if we’ve been granted her blessing to do so.’

Now it’s Delia’s brows which feel as though they’ve left her face. This has been _quite_ the morning already, and it’s barely even begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French courtesy of pretentious Pats: The more things change, the more stays the same.
> 
> I hope this maintained the balance of fluff and feelings all right - any thoughts are gratefully received.


End file.
